


Would you?

by lary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguing, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love, M/M, Masochism, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lary/pseuds/lary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the last few weeks Mycroft had been more difficult and irritating than usual, but the day had left his brain overstimulated and he needed something to quieten the constant noise. There was a wineglass on the desk that had been refilled twice. Mycroft clearly wasn't working on anything important. Wine was unusual. His brother preferred scotch and only chose wine when he didn't deem his self control enough of a deterrent from drinking too much. Sentiment. How tedious.</p><p>“You should have come today.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would you?

 

His brother's house was quiet when Sherlock unlocked the door and let himself in. In the last few weeks Mycroft had been more difficult and irritating than usual, but the day had left his brain overstimulated and he needed something to quieten the constant noise. Heroin would have the desired effect with less effort, but there had been a fire at a residential building near King's Cross two days ago and Molly had promised him the feet of three burn victims, which he wouldn't be able to pick up tomorrow unless he was sober. So Mycroft it was.

 

He found him in the study leafing through a file. There was a wineglass on the desk that had been refilled twice. He clearly wasn't working on anything important. Wine was unusual. Mycroft preferred scotch and only chose wine when he didn't deem his self control enough of a deterrent from drinking too much. _Sentiment._ How tedious. Sherlock didn't want to know; perhaps drugs would have been a better choice.

 

“You should have come today.”

 

Mycroft didn't bother to look up from the file, but his voice was deliberately restrained. “Haven't we gone over this sufficiently?”

 

“It was a wedding. Boring, of course, but it's not as if you haven't been to your share of boring events.”

 

“If you insist on staying, kindly change the subject.”

 

“John and Mary invited you. I though you were all about manners.” Sherlock walked in and dropped his coat on the floor. Mycroft heard the noise and wrinkled his nose in annoyance, thus proving his point. “Why didn't you?”

 

“I was busy.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “You were working out when I phoned you. We both know you'll use any available excuse to avoid exercise.”

 

Finally Mycroft raised his head and met his eyes. There was a quiet anger in his expression, in his voice. “This isn't the time, Sherlock.”

 

“Wrong,” Sherlock pronounced. His heartbeat accelerated in anticipation when Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He shrugged off the tuxedo jacket and relished the tightening of Mycroft's jaw when he dropped it on the floor. “This is the perfect time.”

 

His fingers moved quickly to unbutton his shirt, but he was only halfway through when Mycroft got up and rounded the desk to grab his wrists and halt them. The hold was tight and Mycroft's body pushed him roughly against the wall. He felt a surge of satisfaction; he hadn't expected his brother to capitulate this quickly.

 

“So impatient.” Mycroft's breath was warm on his face, the scent of red wine on it mixing with Mycroft's aftershave and the familiar smell of his skin and the fabric of his suit. Sherlock breathed in deep. The hold on his wrists tightened to the point of pain. “Must you always push it, brother dear?”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock drawled. Mycroft's thigh was close enough that Sherlock managed to grind his crotch against it, smirking when Mycroft took a step back and gave him an unimpressed glance.

 

“Now do be a good boy and undress in the bedroom,” Mycroft said in his most condescending tone. “You may as well prepare yourself while you're at it.”

 

“Make me.”

 

“Oh, you don't want me to do that.”

 

Sherlock rested his head against the wall and looked up at Mycroft from under his lashes. “Oh, but I do.”

 

His brother gave a sigh, as if it was an imposition. His pupils were dilated with desire. “Very well.”

 

Two heartbeats and Mycroft moved backwards in a swift motion. Sherlock wasn't planning to make it easy. He freed one wrist with a sharp pull and crouched down, but he lost his balance momentarily when Mycroft let go of his other wrist and backhanded him. Scrambling up off the floor, he failed to put enough space between them because arousal was surging in his veins at the sharp sting on his face. This was always the problem when fighting Mycroft – through Sherlock's work and Mycroft's training they were equally matched, but Sherlock suffered from the fact that he wanted to succumb almost as much as he wanted to win.

 

Mycroft took advantage of his momentary distraction and grasped his right forearm tight enough to bruise. That alone wouldn't have given him any ground, but Sherlock reflexively raised his left hand to try to get him to release the grip, only too late realising his mistake. Mycroft's other hand took a hold of his right wrist and twisted, forcing Sherlock to relinquish his grasp and turn his body away from Mycroft's. He clenched his teeth together as his arm was pulled upwards and the sharp pain forced him on his knees.

 

He felt Mycroft step closer, legs pressing warm against his back through their clothes. In this position Mycroft only needed one hand to keep him down. He couldn't help the groan as Mycroft's other hand grasped his hair and pulled, forcing him to look up.

 

Mycroft's cheeks were flushed, but his voice was still composed. “Have you had enough yet?”

 

“Never,” Sherlock said, looking him straight in the eye. The admission was worth it to catch Mycroft's sharp intake of breath and a fleeting look of surprise on his face. The smile that followed was genuinely pleased, but also predatory in a way that reminded him of his position on his knees.

 

“How fortunate, since I will never have enough of you.” Mycroft's fingers tightened in his hair. “It is more pleasant of course that you are so willing, but it's hardly a necessity. You, little brother, are _mine_.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let tension flow from his muscles. It was a lie – Mycroft would sooner cut his own throat than do anything to him against his will – and yet it was Mycroft at his most honest. It was intoxicating, that possessive desire in his brother, the same desire that he felt for Mycroft, except his was much less tempered with caution. That was Mycroft's area. Sherlock's was to push for more, and he saw only benefits to his approach, for without it they would never have ended up here. He'd been sixteen when he'd first caught his own desire mirrored in his brother's eyes, but it had taken three whole years to wear down Mycroft's determination to cling to obsolete social norms. Mycroft could be so inconvenient.

 

Sometimes, though, he was extremely _convenient_.

 

Sherlock was floating. He hadn't even needed that much pain to get to this state, although his cheek still smarted and the skin felt deliciously warm. Mycroft was no longer holding his wrist, there was nothing stopping him from getting up, but there was a strong hand grasping his hair in a firm grip and a solid body behind him and warm fingers dipping under his half-opened shirt, ghosting over his collarbone and shoulder. He didn't _want_ to get up. Especially when the sensation moved upwards, Mycroft's palm resting on his Adam's apple, thumb rubbing along his jawline.

 

“Please,” Sherlock whispered. Mycroft's hand pressed on his throat, making his eyes fly open. He gasped for breath. The pressure wasn't enough to cut off air, but it wasn't truly safe either. Oxygen deprivation never was and it was only rarely that he could get Mycroft to do it, no matter how much they both got off on it. He could feel himself getting harder as his body responded to the adrenalin. Mycroft was staring at him like he wanted to devour him, and that made his arousal burn like fire. “Please,” he gasped again, not even sure what he was asking for.

 

“Hush, my dear,” Mycroft said as he released the pressure. Sherlock panted for breath. He could feel his cock throbbing and he keened, hips twitching in an aborted thrusting motion that did nothing to alleviate his arousal. Mycroft's fingers tightened in his hair and he bent closer to murmur in his ear. “None of that, love. You know that I'll give you what you need. Now make your way to the bedroom. There shall be need to stand up.”

 

Mycroft let go of his hair and Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled across the sitting room and hallway towards the master bedroom with Mycroft following close behind. At the back of his head he was aware that he'd normally find this humiliating, but those things never seemed to matter when he felt this serene. He didn't have to look at his brother to know the effect it had on him. Mycroft responded predictably to power, to the sight of Sherlock on the floor, to the indecency of not even bothering to wait until they were undressed.

 

“On the bed, on your knees, hands on the headboard,” Mycroft ordered once they reached the bedroom, his voice barely coherent. As soon as Sherlock complied, Mycroft's hands were on him, pulling his trousers and pants down to his knees before sliding back up along his legs and spreading his cheeks apart. “Perfect,” Mycroft murmured and then there was warm breath on his hole and a hot tongue circling it, sliding up and down his cleft with soft pressure that alighted his nerve-endings with pleasure. It was as if the touch had reminded his body and brain of his arousal and brought it back ten-fold. The serenity was replaced with hunger and need. He moved into the sensation, cursing when Mycroft pulled back.

 

Mycroft tutted, his tone practically radiating smugness. “Patience is a virtue.”

 

“So is shutting up,” Sherlock snapped. Miraculously, his brother finally took the hint and lowered his mouth back on him. Sherlock pushed back, braced on the headboard, and this time Mycroft's tongue breached his rim and _oh god yes right there yes please god_. There were sounds escaping him, moans and pleading words rendered incoherent almost before he could get them out. Mycroft's fingernails dug into his skin, and the pain made the pleasure even more intense.

 

When the tongue was replaced with slicked fingers, his body accepted them easily. Mycroft leaned over him, pulling his shirt out of the way to latch his teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, followed by suction which would leave his mark on Sherlock's body. They both wanted it there, even if it had to be under his clothes. Sherlock hung his head, sinking into the onslaught of sensation. Mycroft eased in a third finger, the stretch uncomfortable enough to make him clutch the headboard, but then Mycroft applied pressure _right there_ and pleasure shot through him.

 

He didn't know whether to pull away or seek more of the overwhelming sensation as Mycroft kept rubbing his prostate, his fingers pressing in over and over. His whole body trembled. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. Mycroft must have been as overheated, for Sherlock could feel that he was still wearing all but the jacket of his three piece suit, his shirtsleeves rolled up in haste. He felt deep satisfaction at the thought. He also felt beyond ready.

 

“More, ohh, fuck me, Mycroft. I know you want to push in when I'm tight like that. Do it.”

 

“So greedy, so impatient,” Mycroft growled, but he eased his fingers out and hastened to get his own trousers and pants out of the way, both of them moaning as the hard line of his cock pressed against Sherlock's leg, dripping wet and hot on his skin.

 

“You love it.”

 

“I do, Lord help me.”

 

There was something in the way he said it, Sherlock was sure. If only he could think. Something in his tone, relevant. But all thought flew out of his head as Mycroft's cock slid into his cleft, slick with lubrication, sliding over his hole, catching on his rim, teasing.

 

“Mycroft...” He barely recognised his own voice. Never did he sound like this except when his brother reduced him to this despicable state of delirious need that he could only bear because the same need was evident in each of Mycroft's movements, the hands that sought Sherlock's hips, his broken gasp as he finally breached the tight muscle and pushed inside.

 

“Oh Sherlock, my love, oh, oh...” Mycroft's voice broke into a moan as Sherlock pushed back to feel that wonderful pressure, that sensation of being spread open and filled. Mycroft was unravelling, losing control of himself, his hips thrusting instinctively into the welcoming heat. Sherlock braced on the headboard and tightened his muscles deliberately, making Mycroft release a tortured sound that went straight into his cock.

 

“Fuck me, Mycroft. You like me filthy like this, dripping all over your sheets. You're ruining our clothes, too. I would have stripped but you wouldn't let me. And you say _I'm_ the impatient one.”

 

Mycroft rammed into him harder, one hand moving over his back to grasp his hair, pull his head back. “You are the impatient one,” he growled. “Impatient. Shameless. Gorgeous. Irresistible.”

 

“Oh, fuck. Yes, oh yes,” Sherlock panted as Mycroft thrust into him, ramming against his prostate again and again, sending jolts of pleasure right into his cock that were making his balls draw up. “Please. I need to come.”

 

Mycroft's hand let go of his hair and wrapped around his throat, not even pressing down but it made him shiver with anticipation. Mycroft's body was a heavy weight on him and his other hand moved to wrap around his cock. “Good Lord you're wet,” he said, sounding wrecked. Sherlock groaned as Mycroft's thrusts drove him into the tight hold. His chest felt tight. The muscles on his arms and legs were burning.

 

“Oh, I'm going to come, oh, fuck yes, all over your bed,” Sherlock panted. “Please, Mycroft, let me...”

 

He felt it everywhere, Mycroft losing control, yelling out as he succumbed to his release. Mycroft's hips rammed against him, his cock pulsing inside him. The fingers tightened against his throat and Sherlock gasped for breath, keening as he fucked into Mycroft's grip. The pressure on his windpipe let up. He gulped for breath, his vision going grey at the edges and then he was coming, his cock spilling white streaks over Mycroft's hand and on the bedsheets. His thighs trembled as Mycroft tightened the hold on his cock, milking more come out of him until the oversensitivity made him sob.

 

“Hush, my dearest.” Mycroft let go and wrapped an arm around him, pulling his unresisting body tight to his chest and easing them both down so that they were lying on their sides, Mycroft's slowly softening cock still inside him. He let his eyes fall closed and welcomed the light kisses on his neck and jaw, Mycroft's needlessly apologetic touch on his throat. Mycroft's lips pressed warm against his and he parted his lips in response, slid his tongue in a languid dance with Mycroft's. He opened his eyes when Mycroft pulled back and brushed hair off his forehead with gentle fingers. “My beautiful boy.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his cheeks heating up. “You insist on calling me that.”

 

“How can I resist when it makes you blush so attractively?”

 

“Yet you call me shameless.”

 

Mycroft smiled, pleased with himself. “You are. Just look at the mess you made. I should make you change the sheets.”

 

“As if you want them changed,” Sherlock countered, and this time it was Mycroft flushing.

 

“Yes, well. Perhaps not quite yet,” he said. Sherlock wanted to rib him, but he was rather pleased that Mycroft wanted the reminder of him in his bed.

 

He felt content enough to let Mycroft keep holding him for a while, but his brain was starting to fire again. It was better though, the noise was gone, and there was a clarity to the connections he was making. Mycroft finally pulled out and got up to fetch a washcloth from the en suite. Sherlock watched him go, thought of the wine on his desk and that wistful tone in his voice. He needed more data. He also needed to clean himself.

 

He waited for Mycroft to make his way back to the bed. His brother had taken off the rest of his clothes and put on his bathrobe. He waited for Sherlock to strip off his shirt before handing him the cloth. His eyes followed avidly as Sherlock wiped it over his spent cock and between his thighs, unselfconscious of his body. Mycroft always liked watching.

 

Sherlock judged this a good moment to find out more. His brother was vulnerable after the alcohol and the sex. And it seemed Sherlock did want to know, after all. “Why didn't you come to the wedding?”

 

Mycroft's pleased smile fell away and he sighed. “Must we talk about this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very well.” Mycroft turned to pour himself a scotch and then sat on the armchair facing the bed. “What have you deduced so far?”

 

Sherlock scooted up on the bed and leaned against the headboard, pulling the sheet on himself. There was little point in being naked if Mycroft wasn't paying attention, and clearly his focus had shifted. “You've been bothered about John's wedding, it is obvious from your reactions whenever I mentioned it. You told Mummy that John asked me to be the best man, knowing very well that she would phone me when I was working. You were short with me on the phone last Saturday and had your assistant cancel our dinner on Thursday. Unlike you.”

 

“Very,” Mycroft said, an apology of sorts.

 

“You refused to come to the wedding, despite the fact that I asked you very nicely. You frequently attend the ceremonies of your acquaintances, so there is something about John's wedding that puts you off. You are cordial to John and Mary, so it must be my involvement. You were too distracted to work today. You had wine instead of scotch. Sentiment. You're currently putting distance between us when we've just had sex. Whatever it is, you are uncomfortable admitting to it.”

 

“And?”

 

This is where Sherlock faltered, his conclusions about his brother's motivations unclear. “I am close to them, closer than anybody else besides you. But the same has been true of John ever since he moved in, and yet you have never been jealous of him. So I would think you knew better.”

 

“Quite,” Mycroft confirmed dryly. It was expected, but it also left Sherlock with nothing to go on. He hated the feeling, hated showing Mycroft that he couldn't read him, but his curiosity won.

 

“Why, then?”

 

“I do not begrudge you your friends.” Mycroft slid his fingers over the rim of the glass before taking a sip. “Unlike you, however, I have no wish to live vicariously.”

 

Sherlock bristled. “How do I live vicariously? I have no desire to get married. A pointless and archaic social ritual. Why would you think that I would-- _oh_.” Sherlock threw the sheet off and got up, stalking towards his brother, who stared at his scotch glass. “I have no wish to get married, but you do. You would. But you can't, because of me, not as long as... all of this.”

 

He had figured it out, but the elation had vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only ashes in its wake. There was a heavy weight in his gut that hadn't been there before. He made to turn away, but Mycroft was quicker, halting the motion with his hand. He stood up, his other hand touching Sherlock's cheek, wordlessly begging him to look at him.

 

Sherlock didn't want to. He didn't want the confirmation of being right, not this time. But he did anyway, meeting Mycroft's eyes. There was a gentleness in them, in his voice. “Still too quick to jump to wrong conclusions, little brother.”

 

Sherlock swallowed. “Where am I wrong?”

 

“I have no desire to get married. Certainly, if I could make you my husband, I would not hesitate for a moment. But I cannot because you are my brother. And that is infinitely better, do you not agree?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered, arrested by Mycroft's expression. Raw, tender, flayed open. Mycroft's fingers caressed his cheek.

 

“I would not change that for anything. Having you as my brother, as my lover, is so much more than I deserve. You are exquisite and beautiful and perfect. I merely wish, sometimes, that I could flaunt the passion I have for you. I want everyone to see my marks on your skin. I wish to declare my love for you. I wish to embrace you and kiss you in front of them and have all of them know that you are mine.” Mycroft's tone turned sardonic. “Those wishes are all terribly pedestrian, I am aware.”

 

Mycroft was about to pull his hand back, but Sherlock caught it, lacing his fingers with Mycroft's and guiding them back to his face. “Some would say romantic.”

 

“Is there a distinction?” Mycroft asked, but his fingers had resumed the gentle caress of Sherlock's skin. Sherlock smiled and turned his head to kiss them, holding Mycroft's gaze.

 

“None at all.”

 

Mycroft's lips twitched. “Indeed. I would ask you to ignore them, as I endeavour to do. I know you do not share the sentiment.”

 

“No. I have no wish to declare anything to all those people,” Sherlock confirmed. “They do not notice the most obvious of things. They do not see that I want you, always. They do not see that I am in love with you. They do not see that you're mine. And that is perfect, for I want you all to myself. I want _you_ to know and nobody else.”

 

Mycroft was looking at him stunned. He opened and closed his mouth before finally whispering, “I do know.”

 

“Perfect,” Sherlock said and pulled him into a kiss, which Mycroft responded to by sinking his fingers into Sherlock's hair and pouring in all that uncomfortably raw sentiment. Sherlock did the same, melding into his brother until they had to pull back to pant for breath, foreheads touching. “Now would you lose the robe and come back to bed already?”

 

Mycroft laughed, complying with the request with a satisfying amount of eagerness.

 


End file.
